The First Five Celebrities You Meet In Hell

"I stepped up on the platform; the man gave me the news.
He said, 'You must be joking, son.
Where did you get those shoes?'"
---Steely Dan, "Pretzel Logic"

Starin' down the barrel of Monday, now. Tomorrow, we load-in the travelling production of Camelot, starring the great Lou Diamond Phillips.
I don't actually think he's great...What exactly would I be judging that by, if I did? But that certainly is the name of someone great, doncha think? It exudes the easy casualness of 'Lou', but suggests opulence with its 'Diamond', and caps it all off with an unnervingly Anglo 'Phillips', just like those nice Phillipses who live down the street, and look not one iota like the dusky erstwhile (Oscar-winning?) star of La Bamba.

In cases like these, I think one can confidently say that I won't be meeting Lou himself. But unlike the big touring rock shows, where the stars stay far away from people like me, and some-Bob Dylan and Prince, for two-have riders explicitly stating that stagehands are not to even look at the talent, chances are I will have Lou walk by me on the final night of performance, smile that little smile of his and say, "Thanks for all your hard work."
This sort of thing is just kind of expected, by the way. And frankly, yeah, you'd better be nice to us, Lou. In this age where Tom Wopat and Lisa Rinna might very well end up headlining Chicago, anything goes, and apparently even having once been mentioned somewhere is enough to catapult your ass into a lead in a Broadway show.

So yeah: Tonight! 'Oliver!' with Al Roker as Fagin! It's not impossible. The potential problem with tomorrow/this week's production is that the cast and crew changed over completely in L.A., the last stop before here. I will be working with people who are going to be in the dark, and it all begins, Six A.M. tomorrow.

I think I was whining somewhere recently (oh yeah; it was here) that of all the celebrities I've brushed up against, very few of them have been anyone I actually wanted to meet. Like Lisa "Kennedy" Montgomery? Bad example: I went to highschool with pre-nosejob Lisa, and though she was very funny in that caustic way that the profoundly unattractive develop to deflect wrath, I would love to know the story that propelled her from what she was then...To for some reason becoming the oddly conflicted voice of a 'generation' in the most market-speak sense of the word, and currently captaining a show on the under-appreciated Game Show Network. Something Happened, and I can't hardly imagine what it was.

Celebrity: Don't Do It, seems to be the overarching message I get from the pop culture machine, these days. This is largely the fault of the pop culture machine itself, by the way, in an age when record labels are becoming obsolete, and the big entertainment combines prefer to give rather smaller sums to people willing to literally eat horse cock on television, in lieu of dealing with the Screen Actor's Guild.
And this is why Bret Michaels, who by all definitions of justice I've ever heard, deserves to be selling used cars in Modesto, has a reality show. I love the fact that last night's series climax of Rock of Love features his poignant, and up-until-now unmentioned secret: he has diabetes, and probably shouldn't have spent so much of the show auditioning chicks on the basis of their drinking skills.

Better still, he gives us the news with the Wilford Brimley treatment: Dia-beet-us. Oh, but it won't dia-beat Bret! He picked the girl who knows how to administer an insulin shot, or at least was actually told that this might very well be one of her expected duties.
In the old days, he wouldn't have been given a reality show, but a variety show. And there, surrounded by washed-up Broadway stars, hosts of forgotten game shows, and Rodney Allan Rippy, the Gary Coleman of his age, Bret would have been forced to walk us through A Salute to the Swingin' Thirties, featuring the Bret Michaels Roller Derby Dancers!

I mean, where exactly is Pink Lady and Jeff now? They too were never what you'd call stars, but they seem to have received network approval to host a star-studded (encrusted?) variety show, during the final death throes of the Variety Show Itself.
Matter of fact, for a far better overview of what the societal ramifications of this thing are, plus what the thing looks like taken to its natural extremes, read this post from Junk Thief, in which I am also reminded, in the comment section, that the great mind behind Disco Tex and His Sex-O-Lettes (now there's the title of my variety/reality show!), the very first disco album of all if-you-ask-me, is still alive, and in Las Vegas.

(and about where Don got those shoes...)
"Well I seen 'em on the teevee
the movie show
They say the times 're changin' but I
just don't know...
These things are gone forever
Over a long time ago..."
---Dan Steele, again

Oh, and: Bonus! What to say to various celebrities, should you meet them (tm)!

Englebert Humperdink:
Be very enthusiastic, and obviously overjoyed to meet him, but keep on calling him 'Hinkerdink', and 'Henkledunk' and so forth, causing him eventually to jump up and down comically, screaming, "HUMPER-DINK! HUMP-ER-DINK!", ala Chris Sarandon's character in
The Princess Bride.

Sammy Hagar:
When-not 'if', when- you meet Sammy in between informal jams at Cabo Wabos, keep on referencing that "brilliant 'Three-Lock Box' concept you pioneered in the Eighties", but ask him at some point what the hell he meant by "raisin-TOOOOASSST!".
Do not bring up Van Hagar, he hates that. Nor should you make reference to his work as a Viking who owns a dog named Snert, and a duck named Kvack. Or what the hell: do it anyway. It's fucking Sammy Hagar, who cares?

Carol Gilligan:
After the feminist author has finished her lecture, and you're all having some social cocktails back at the Dean's house, make sure to show up wearing a skipper's cap. Everyone will know exactly what is coming, and will look at you with apprehension, but no one will mention it to Ms. Gilligan, interestingly.
And at some point, during a lull in the conversation, you walk up to her, smiling. At this point you remove the skipper's cap and start swatting her about the head and shoulders screaming, "GILLIGAN!" over and over again, sounding as much like Alan Hale, Jr. as possible.
You will receive applause, and perhaps a position in the Applied Philosophy department, for this.

Rush Limbaugh:
Never, ever call him by his actual given name, instead, consistently refer to him as Fatass Drug Addict, each n' every time. Do this when he is not around, too.

Okay: Bye. Next time, some further maunderings on my very favorite albums of all.